


And Then

by paladinpalindrome



Category: Being Human, Being Human (UK)
Genre: Backstory, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-13
Updated: 2013-03-13
Packaged: 2017-12-05 04:36:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paladinpalindrome/pseuds/paladinpalindrome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"<i>And then what?</i>"  George had screamed, begging and mourning, voice wrapped in angry barbed wire, thrown at himself and at the entire world. </p><p>He thinks later that before the stranger had stalked off, he had seen something in his eyes that was like a broken mirror.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Then

**Author's Note:**

> Title and dialogue in the first scene kindly borrowed from episode 1x06. 
> 
> Enjoy :)

He hears the man before he sees him, face buried behind bags of trash that are probably stained in his own blood.

 _How many people in the cafe?_

There's a lilt to his words that George pinpoints as Irish, and it occurs to him that it would be a nice voice if the newcomer wasn't so obviously an acquaintance of his assailants. 

_I've got no love for lychos_ , he hears, and it makes no sense even though he knows the word must be directed at him. 

He first sees the man through a haze of red. 

"They were going to kill me," he whimpers, a question and a statement and a plea for anything, for everything all at once. The stickiness of blood is smeared across his face, his mouth gaping open, aching and unhinged. 

"Yeah." The man answers. He's tall, taller than George, dark and collected, with none of the wild, unbridled glee that the others displayed in his pain. He's frowning down at him, and George thinks he looks troubled before the panic of what he's said rises up in him, bubbling red out between his teeth. 

" _Why?_ " he cries. 

"They don't like werewolves," the man responds, the troubled look shutters off as he moves toward him, and George feels another sharp stab of fear before he remembers that this man stopped the others, that he said _they_ instead of _we_. It's not until later that he thinks back on the fact that he really should have been more concerned about the word _werewolves_. 

The man strides towards him, carefully, extending fingers that gingerly hold his glasses out to him. George swallows his flinch, chest heaving and every drop of blood spilt screaming out to him that this man can hurt him too. There are too many things he wants to know, though, too many questions, and there's also the fact that it's the first time in months someone's reached out towards him to give something back, something other than money or pain or impatient callousness. 

"How did they know?" He breathes desperately. 

"People like us can recognize people like you." There's an edge to the stranger's voice, a ragged sort of barrier. "It's complicated."

George pushes himself up, back pressed against the brick behind him, weakly gathering himself to his feet. He takes the glasses. 

"People like you?"

"Vampires." The stranger turns away as he says the word, another impossible word, not meeting his eyes. "Do you - live near here?" 

Months later George will think that that was the moment. That was the thing that gave Mitchell away. He had faltered, dropped the front, the hard-edged disguise. He couldn't even look a stranger in the eyes as he said what he was. 

"They're gonna come back," he had continued. "They always do." Weariness crept into his voice, eyes flickering onto and away from George, wondering. George stared back, wide eyes bruised from tears and fists and framed with blood-stains. 

"I'm sorry." He strides away, pace slowing down as he enters the shadows. George thinks, wildly, that he means it.

"And then what?"

The stranger turned back, eyes shadowed and shuttered as he listened to his rant.

" _And then what?_ " he had screamed, begging and mourning, voice wrapped in angry barbed wire, thrown at himself and at the entire world. 

He thinks that before the man, no - vampire, had stalked off, he had seen something in his eyes that was like a broken mirror. 

\--

George knows that he should leave, should listen to the tall stranger, should remember _they're gonna come back_ , should bugger off and never look back. But then he wakes up. His body is sore from the beating and his face is swollen. He has a morning shift. George Sands is nothing if not a creature of routine, in every possible way, and he is walking downstairs to the cafe and tying an apron around his waist before he can even consciously come to the decision to do so. 

The early morning is slow, he recognizes some of the regular crowd who come in, business men on their way to work, the elderly woman who comes in twice a week for tea and toast and always sits alone. Months ago George would have known her whole story, her name, her family, why she always sits in the same booth. But the George from months ago was a human George, and talked to people and touched people, not like this George, the George who works with his head down and eats alone and drinks alone, and hadn't wondered about anyone else's story until last night. 

He catches sight of his reflection in the mirror behind the counter, and all he can see is the memory of his own fear in the other man's eyes. 

\--

Two days later the door to the cafe rings open with the clanging of the off-tune bell, and George doesn't look up. 

"We're closing," he throws behind him tiredly. He realizes there's no one in the mirror, and he turns around, confused, because he heard the door ring and _what if they're back_ and almost jumps out of his skin when he comes face to face with his odd rescuer on the other side of the register. 

"Jesus _Christ_!" George screeches. 

"I thought I told you to leave," he says levelly. 

George whips around to look at his singular reflection, and back at the man again. 

"You - you're - there's no-one - "

"Vampire," he says hollowly, eyes flicking away again. "Comes with the territory." 

George just stands and works his mouth open and shut, blankly. He doesn't even know where to start with this one, doesn't know what to consider. He still barely knows anything about what _he_ is. 

"Can I - ugh, get you something?" he asks instead, routine words echoing through his skull. 

"What?"

"It's a cafe, isn't it? I can at least give you a coffee in return for saving my life."

The man looks troubled again, eyebrows pulled together in a frown.

"What are you still doing here, George."

"Wha-? How do you know my name?" he stutters, voice flying upwards. "Is that like a weird v-vampire thing, do you know everything about me?"

"You're wearing a name tag, George." 

"Oh. Well, who are you, then?"

"It doesn't matter." He flicks his eyes away again, looking decidedly uncomfortable. 

"You saved my life, it matters to me," he says roughly. 

The man swallows hard, eyes dropped to the counter. "Mitchell," he mutters quietly. 

"Alright then. What can I get you, Mitchell."

His eyes snap up. "You need to _leave_ ," he grates out, hoarsely. He turns and stalks out of the cafe, bell ringing and door slamming behind him. 

George pretends that his hands aren't shaking. 

\--

 _I can't leave_ , George tells himself. _I can't leave, I have nowhere to go_. 

He has a job here, a place to sleep, a place that until a few nights ago seemed entirely safe. He doesn't have enough money to bugger off and run again. He doesn't have a plan. 

He thinks sometimes he doesn't care. Doesn't care what happens to him as long as he doesn't hurt anyone. Until the other night, and self-preservation kicked in, tore through him and left him useless at the hands of strangers. _Vampires_. He didn't even understand what he was - how it was possible, how anything worked. He had never considered anything else. 

And now there's the man. No, the vampire. Mitchell. 

_They_ don't like werewolves, he had said. Not _we_. He had saved him. Maybe he had some sort of answer, some sort of - solution. He at least seemed to know what he was doing. 

_It's more than that_ , his mind whispers back at him, in the middle of the night between nightmares of the attack and nightmares of himself with someone's else's flesh between his teeth. _He's like you. You saw it_. 

The others were revelers. Tormenters, bullies. They knew what he was, somehow, and they targeted. Struck out. Mitchell couldn't even look him in the eye when he said that impossible word. 

_He doesn't want it_ , George thinks. _He doesn't want this either_. 

\--

The next morning dawns bright and sunny, a gorgeous day that George angrily shuts his blinds against as he stumbles back to bed. 

He meanders downstairs for the afternoon shift, pouring a coffee down his throat as he takes a cursory glance over the booths in the cafe. _They're_ not there, thank God, but Mitchell is. Wrapped in the same coat and tapping one foot against the floor, staring down at all the nothing on his table. 

George walks up, clears his throat, and sees something like relief in the other man's eyes. 

"You're still here."

"Good morning to you too."

"You're. Still. Here." He repeats harshly. 

George swallows down the panic, the anxiety he thought he had left tucked away upstairs. 

"I have nothing - I have _nowhere_ else to go. I can't do that. Again." 

Mitchell nods his head towards the booth, and George slides in. The man leans in, voice quiet and urgent. 

"Did you not understand what I said when I told you they will _kill_ you?" 

"Why do _you_ even care?" George snaps, tiredly. 

Mitchell's brow furrows again, his eyes startled, puzzled, as he sits back against the booth. "Why aren't you afraid of me?" he asks after a moment. 

"I don't know," George whispers, even though he does, he does know. "There's not a lot left to care about in my life, I suppose." 

"You just found out that there are _vampires_ ," Mitchell hisses, leaning in towards him again, "Three of which, specifically, are targeting you. How the hell is that not something to be afraid of?" 

They stare at each other in silence, and George knows, he knows he has to leave, but he can't. Can't face doing it all over again, alone. It'd only been six months, _Christ_. How the hell was he supposed to manage the rest of his life?

"I guess there's not enough of me left to fear you with," he mutters, angry tears welling in his eyes. "Either one of them will kill me, or I'll kill someone and I could never - _live_ with myself if that were to happen. I don't have enough money to leave, I at least have a job here, and there are woods nearby for the - " He stops. "Well, I don't think I'll ever really find a proper way to do that."

Mitchell is looking down again, fiddling with his hands. 

"I suppose it's like your… thing." George says carefully. 

The man's head snaps up, confused. 

"My thing?"

"Well, the - b-blood. I don't suppose there's any easy way to get away with whatever you have to do for that."

"I just don't," he responds. Eyes closed off again, voice clipped and sharp. 

"Well, some of us don't exactly have a choice," George sneers. 

"It isn't exactly a party, mate." Mitchell bites back. 

They stare at each other again, a silent standoff in the quiet cafe. 

"You know why I'm not afraid of you?" George asks. "You look like me. You don't - you don't want this anymore than I do. I'm not afraid of you because I bet that more than _anything_ you're afraid of yourself." 

There's something startled, like an old wound, wrenched open in the other man's eyes as he stares back, and for a second George can see it again, see the mirrored terror and haunting pain looking back at him. 

"It's like looking in a mirror," he whispers. 

"Well," Mitchell says sarcastically, "I wouldn't exactly know about that." And with that he pulls himself out of the booth, across the cafe and out of the door, the mournful bell ringing out behind him.


End file.
